


The Adventure of the Gilded Lily (A Game of Hearts pt. 3)

by zmethos



Series: A Game of Hearts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmethos/pseuds/zmethos
Summary: Moriarty demands a Holmes family heirloom, but to what end?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These stories were written after the first series [season] of BBC's _Sherlock_ and therefore do not reflect anything that happened in the show in subsequent seasons.
> 
> This particular story is long, so I'm breaking it up into chapters.
> 
> Sherlock and John's relationship continues to build here.

SHERLOCK AWOKE IN an unfamiliar place, which in and of itself was irregular enough, but the discovery that his movement was restricted caused him especial alarm. He immediately began to take stock of his situation:

He was on a bed. Lying on his left side. His wrists were tied with a rope that had been looped around the bedpost. His socks and shoes had been removed and his ankles tied together. And there was something around his neck as well, a kind of noose that tightened when he tried to look over his shoulder.

_Well, this is fun. I’ve either had a really bad night or a really good one._

He was facing a row of windows that were mostly covered by heavy drapes, though he saw through the gaps in some that it was light out—afternoon by the looks of it.

So where had he been before this? He’d had tea . . . That must have been yesterday. He’d gone out some time after because Lestrade had called and asked him to go look at a crime scene the police couldn’t make heads or tails of. Sherlock remembered getting in a cab . . . riding for a bit, then realizing something wasn’t right . . . He’d met the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror . . . 

Moriarty.

Something akin to panic caused his heart to flutter momentarily, but he pushed the feeling down, even as he felt the mattress shift as someone sat behind him, leaned close, and the words were whispered in his ear: “Shhh. Fighting will only make it worse.”

Sherlock’s brain shifted into overdrive. Based on the décor, he was either in a hotel or a flat that had been rented out as furnished. The gaps in the drapes didn’t give him enough of a view to know where he was exactly in terms of the city, but he could guess by the height of the slivers of buildings he could make out that he was at least four stories up, possibly more. And there was someone (and of course he knew who, but acknowledging it seemed like admitting defeat somehow) behind him that he could not turn and see without lynching himself.

“Look at you,” Moriarty purred, and he was leaning closer now, his breath warm on Sherlock’s ear. “Analyzing the situation, examining and discarding options. They couldn’t build a more perfect computer.”

Sherlock forced himself to remain still. “What do you want, Moriarty?”

“I’ve been planning this for a long time, so try not to ruin it for me. And call me Jim. Please. Such a plain name, I know, but a Jim is as good as a John, don’t you think?”

Another burst of fear threatened, but Sherlock squelched it. Where had John been last night? Not home. He hadn’t been at the flat as much lately, was still a tad bent out of shape regarding their last misadventure. Sherlock hadn’t thought much about it, figuring John was unlikely to be doing anything very interesting, but now he realized not keeping track of John might have made his flatmate more vulnerable.

But Moriarty was chuckling. “No need to worry on his account. Do you think he’s worried about you? If you’re lucky, he’ll be along in a little while. I’ve asked him to bring something by on your behalf.

“And while we wait, we can have some quality time.”

Sherlock was unable to stop himself from flinching when Moriarty moved as if to touch his face, and Moriarty clucked with disappointment. “Reserved,” he sighed, “and for someone who doesn’t even want it, more’s the pity.

“Still, I wonder what you’d be willing to trade for my promise not to shoot him in the head the minute he sets foot through the door?”

***

THE MESSAGE MADE no sense, for one thing, and he didn’t owe Sherlock any favors for another.

_Go ask Mycroft for the gilded lily._

Right. Except John wasn’t the least bit interested in being caught between Sherlock and his brother. Again.

And then he wanted the thing brought to a suite at the Ritz? Really? And what was Sherlock doing there, exactly? The whole thing was ridiculous.

John sighed and went back to his lunch. Let Sherlock ask Mycroft for the whatsit. They could sort themselves out without any help from him.

***

SHERLOCK FELT THE binding around his neck slacken. “Better?” Moriarty asked. Sherlock didn’t bother to answer. “Here, look at me,” Moriarty went on, and when Sherlock refused, Moriarty wrenched his chin to his left. “Let me see those pretty eyes of yours. I want to witness the precise moment the light goes out of them.”

_No hurry. Having a lovely afternoon here._

Two hours since the last message, which was quite a stretch where Sherlock was concerned. And was he being sarcastic now? Then again, he was at the Ritz for whatever reason, so maybe Sherlock really was having a nice afternoon.

John considered sending back a snappish reply, or even just suggesting Sherlock ask Mycroft directly, but decided that might only make him seem as childish as his flatmate.

He glanced at his watch. If he was going to ask Mycroft for this lily thing, he had better do it soon; Sherlock’s brother might not be at his office much longer (though John wasn’t sure what hours the older Holmes brother kept), and John didn’t know where Mycroft lived.

Even as he left the flat, John was still debating whether he’d go over to Whitehall. Maybe he’d just go see Sarah instead. They’d been spending more time together, which had been . . . nice. A little . . . normal, he supposed, but wasn’t normal supposed to be a good thing? And though Sarah insisted on taking things painfully slowly, John had the notion it would all be worth the time he was investing. Eventually.

And he wasn’t the least bit curious about what Sherlock was doing at the Ritz. Nor did he care what this gilded lily was.

But when he got into the cab, he heard himself say “Whitehall” anyway.

***

MORIARTY SET THE scalpel on the bureau and picked up a towel to wipe his hands. “Now what will we do if the good doctor doesn’t show?” he mused. “I wonder if it’s possible to truly die of a broken heart?”

***

“WELL WHAT DOES he want it for?” Mycroft was demanding to know when John’s phone chimed again.

_By all means, John, take your time._

John rolled his eyes and put the phone back in his jacket. “I have no idea. I don’t even know what it is.”

“It’s not like I keep it here,” Mycroft went on. “It’s at my flat.” He heaved a sigh, then said, “Fine, fine. I’ll send my assistant to fetch it. But you tell Sherlock not to lose it. It may not mean much to him, but it was given to our great-great grandfather by Queen Victoria.”

John couldn’t hide his surprise. “Really?”

“And you have no idea why he wants it?” Mycroft persisted.

“None at all. He’s . . . kept to himself lately.”

“Mm.” Mycroft rose, and taking his lead, John did also. “Go along back to Baker Street, and I’ll have my assistant bring it ’round,” Mycroft told him as he walked John to his office door. “And do me the favor of letting me know what Sherlock’s up to, if and when you figure it out.”

***

IT WAS DINNERTIME before John set out for the Ritz, gilded lily in hand. It was an odd little object, a gold-plated ornamental staff of about four inches topped with a decorative sort of fleur-de-lis. What use it could possibly have, or for what reason it might have been awarded to Sherlock’s great-great grandfather, was impossible for John to divine.

But no matter. John would take it—neatly nested in its black leather case that was stamped with Victoria’s insignia—to the Ritz as requested. If Sherlock was in an agreeable mood, maybe they would have dinner together. Though given that it had taken John half the day to bring this item to him, the chances of Sherlock being at all agreeable seemed remote.

The key card to the room was waiting for him at the desk, just as Sherlock had said in his text. John took the elevator up and realized as he stepped out that these were the posh suites, the types with full-on sitting rooms and such. What was Sherlock doing here?

He found the correct suite and unlocked the door.

The sitting room was mostly dark; one lamp in a far corner was on its softest setting.

“Sherlock?” John stepped in and let the door swing closed behind him. _Maybe he’s at dinner already . . ._ Though that didn’t seem like Sherlock, who often couldn’t remember to eat without someone prodding him into it.

With a sigh John started to set the case containing the lily on one of the various marble-topped tables when a voice said, “I’ll take that.”

John whipped his head to the left, where a closed door almost certainly led into the suite’s bedroom. And in front of the door stood Moriarty.

John opened his mouth, but Moriarty put a finger up, gesturing with his head toward the door behind him. “Sleeping,” he mouthed as he stepped forward. “We were starting to worry you weren’t coming. But we’ve had a nice visit. I was even able to untie him after he lost consciousness. The first time.

“Now, the lily?”

John stood there, his head tingling and a queasy sort of sick feeling crawling from his stomach to his throat.

“That’s it, in the case?”

But John couldn’t process what was going on. He clutched the case, his eyes darting between Moriarty and the bedroom door.

“You’re free to check on him once you hand it over,” Moriarty told him.

John tossed the case carelessly onto the sitting room sofa and took the distance from there to the bedroom in two long strides. He threw the door open and stopped on the threshold. There were no lights on; the only illumination came from the streetlights outside filtering in through gaps in the drapes, along with the little bit of light trickling in from the open door where John stood.

First he saw the buttons. Two—no, three—on the dark carpet. Shirt buttons, he realized, and then saw the shirt itself crumpled next to the bed. It didn’t require a medical degree to perceive the dark stains were almost certainly dried blood.

John’s heart was beating so hard he couldn’t hear anything else. His lungs couldn’t catch any air. He felt like if he tried to take a step he might only fall over.

There was someone on the bed. Not “someone” of course, it was Sherlock, but John found thinking about it that way only served to paralyze him. And anyway, it wasn’t so obviously Sherlock because the person was wrapped in the bedspread, though some of the hair was visible. And that was definitely Sherlock’s hair.

“Sherlock.” It came out as a shaky sort of hiss.

Light, he needed light to see . . . what he didn’t want to see, but he had to look because Sherlock almost certainly needed, what? Medical attention? Was he even breathing? The darkness paired with the heavy bedspread made it impossible to tell.

John felt the wall until he found the light switch, swallowed hard, flipped it.

The lamps on either side of the bed flared, set dim. _Mood lighting_ , thought John grimly. The wrapped body on the bed didn’t move, so hauling in a deep breath of his own, John stepped toward it. One, two . . . He found himself counting the steps in order to keep his mind off what he might discover. He ended at six, pulled over one of the richly upholstered chairs from beside the windows and sat down.

“Sherlock.” And this time it came out as a squeak.

Half the face was visible; everything else was covered. The cheek had a bruise along the bone; John thought he might need to x-ray it for fractures.

So far, so good. Or at least not as bad as he might have feared.

He reached over and tugged some of the bedspread away from the neck and shoulders and couldn’t stop himself from gasping. He was no forensics expert, but he recognized teeth marks when he saw them. Rope burn, too, and for good measure something small and sharp had been driven in just there, forming a minute but deep puncture wound . . .

John ran a hand down his face, not sure he could stand seeing more. “Christ, Sherlock, what did he do to you?”

“I could give you a play-by-play, but it would take ages.”

John looked up to see Moriarty leaning against the wall near the door, arms folded.

“Almost as long as it took you to get here,” Moriarty went on. “Anyway, you should ask what you really want to know. Like: whether or not he cried, or if maybe he enjoyed it a bit.”

John had never wished more that he had his gun with him than in that moment, and he privately vowed to start carrying it regularly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Moriarty told him. “This isn’t my fault. We were passing the time. I have you to thank for allowing me to be so thorough.” He pushed away from the wall and walked to a table in the far corner, from which he withdrew a gun. “I promised Sherlock I wouldn’t shoot you in the head, but that leaves plenty of other soft spots to aim for.”

And with that, John suddenly didn’t care. He felt detached from everything that was happening around him; it all became surreal and dreamlike, and he started to laugh.

Moriarty’s eyebrows shot up. “Funny?”

“You’re insane,” said John.

“Ah, but also brilliant. And if one is going to be insane, then it’s just as well to be the genius kind.”

But John only shook his head. “And yet you’re still not as smart as him, are you?” he asked, pointing to Sherlock. It all seemed very clear to him now that he had nothing to lose. “That’s what this is about. If you asked a magic mirror who was smartest of them all, it would say, ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ and that makes you batty, doesn’t it?”

“Dangerous things to say to a man with a gun.”

John shrugged. “So kill me, kill him, kill us both. You still won’t have won by your wits, only by default.”

Moriarty tapped the muzzle of the gun against his chin in a show of contemplation. “I see your point. But then, whatever the circumstances, winning is winning.” He cocked the gun.

John closed his eyes.

A split second before the gunshot, John became aware of movement nearby. A few moments after the gunshot, once he realized he hadn’t actually been shot, he opened his eyes.

Sherlock was sitting up, eyes closed, a gun in his lap. Moriarty was nowhere to be seen.

“Sherlock?” The bedspread had fallen away from the rest of the detective’s torso, revealing a constellation of bruises, scratches, lacerations, and what John was almost positive were burn marks.

“I apologize for not hitting him more squarely,” Sherlock murmured. “I had to pick my aim by sound; I believe I shot him in the shoulder.” He opened his eyes but still did not turn his head. “Are you all right, John?”

“Am I . . .? Sherlock, it’s a miracle you can even move, much less fire a gun. Never mind me; we need to get you to a hospital.”

“No.”

“But—”

“No! I refuse to be scrutinized by a gaggle of half-witted . . .” Sherlock sucked air through his teeth. “No. Just no.”

“Those ribs, I think they’re broken,” John persisted. When Sherlock failed to respond, he sighed and moved on. “Where did the gun come from then?”

“Side table. I took it when he went into the sitting room.”

“We should call Lestrade at least,” said John. “Get them looking for Moriarty.”

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled slightly. “I was on my way to see him last night, about a crime scene.”

“Then he’ll be especially interested in finding out what happened to you.”

“Yes, well, that’s not a conversation I intend to have.” Sherlock threw off the remainder of the bedspread, and John was relieved to see his trousers, if wrinkled, were still intact.

“What? But he’s out there, somewhere, and he has your lily or whatever . . .”

Moving slowly and deliberately, Sherlock eased himself to the foot of the bed. “I don’t give a damn about the lily.”

“Well, but Mycr—” John stood and reached over as if to help.

Sherlock flinched, his eyes flicking to meet John’s briefly before turning away again. “Don’t. Touch me.”

John took a step back, working to mask his hurt, though it hardly mattered because Sherlock’s attention was on the door. “Not like Moriarty to run,” he mused.

“He’s a coward,” said John bitterly.

“Not that kind of coward. He was ready to shoot you and possibly me; my winging him unexpectedly wouldn’t have been likely to change his mind.”

“If you hit him in the shoulder, maybe he wasn’t able to shoot.”

But Sherlock shook his head. “It wouldn’t have stopped him trying. I’ve spent enough time in his company to know.” He turned and looked at the windows. “There’s some other reason for his leaving.”

John watched Sherlock’s gaze travel over the room; he could practically see the way Sherlock pulled data from every surface, though it was a mystery to John what, exactly, Sherlock saw.

Then Sherlock stood. He swayed precariously, and John tensed, prepared to catch him if he fell. But Sherlock steadied himself and moved around the bed. “Where was he?”

“What?” asked John, not following.

“Where was he standing, John? I couldn’t see, remember?”

John tried not to let Sherlock’s impatience sting him. “About there,” he answered, pointing a little to the right of where Sherlock stood.

Sherlock positioned himself and looked at the windows again. John, meanwhile, tried not to stare at the accumulation of wounds on the detective’s torso.

“The gaps,” Sherlock said suddenly.

John looked over his shoulder at the draped glass. “What?” he asked again, feeling abjectly stupid.

“The gaps in the drapes aren’t arbitrary,” said Sherlock, his voice thick with something akin to horror. “They’re aligned with the windows across the street. Someone was watching.”

“You’re paranoid,” said John. “There’s nobody over there. There aren’t even any lights on.”

“There’s no one there now, maybe, but there was. I need to . . .” Sherlock glanced down at himself, then began looking around.

“You’re bleeding,” John told him as one of the long cuts down Sherlock’s sides began to weep bright red tears.

Sherlock started to reach for his blood-stained shirt but stopped with a grimace. “Hand me that, would you?”

“You can’t go out in that.” When Sherlock appeared as if he might ignore him, John grabbed his shoulders.

“Let go of me.”

“No.” Sherlock pulled back, but John held on. “Look, you’re amazing,” He told Sherlock earnestly. “That you’re even up and about is . . . A lesser man would still be in bed, if not under it. And you’re the most brilliant person I know, but humor me here. You absolutely need a medical consultation for your physical injuries, and right now there’s the very real possibility you’re having a post-traumatic reaction that’s causing you to overreact to things like gaps in the drapes.”

Sherlock absorbed this, and for a moment John thought he’d broken through to him. But then the eyes narrowed. “And does this little speech stem from the same concern that caused you to take over six hours to show up?”

John’s hands tightened briefly on Sherlock’s shoulders before releasing him. “Just let me x-ray your cheek and your ribs. You can do what you want after that.”

“I’m not going to the hospital.”

“We’ll go to the clinic,” said John. “It’s closed, but Sarah has a key.”

“Hand me my shirt.”

“The clinic?”

“Yes, fine, if that’s what it takes to get you to hand me my shirt!”

“You can’t go out in that,” John told him again.

“My coat’s somewhere,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes starting to rove again. “I’ll button it; it’ll be fine.”

_It’s like he needs constant input_ , John thought as he watched Sherlock scan the room. He bent over and retrieved the abused shirt. “I’ll go and call Sarah.”

***

“I HOPE THE other guy looks worse,” Sarah said a little too brightly when they joined her at the clinic. John shot her a pleading look, coupled with a small shake of his head, and she bit her lip. Sherlock, meanwhile, ignored her completely and began walking around, fiddling with objects on the waiting area reception desk.

“Someone hit him?” she asked John in a low voice. It took him a moment to realize she couldn’t see the extent of the damage because of Sherlock’s coat.

“Among other things,” he said.

“Well, I warmed up the x-ray machine like you asked. We can just get a quick picture of his cheek—”

“And his ribs,” John told her. “They’re fractured at the very least; I want to make sure they’re not all out broken.”

“Must have been some fight,” said Sarah, turning to look at where Sherlock was flipping through someone’s stack of messages.

“Sherlock,” John called to him, thinking to himself that he sounded a bit like someone calling a recalcitrant dog.

“This Marcy person is in for it,” Sherlock said. “Looks like she’s juggling two boyfriends, but Jack seems to be catching on, and he’s really not happy.” His eyes tracked over to the blinking message light on the phone.

“No!” John shouted. “Put the messages down and come on.”

Sherlock shrugged and tossed the stack of papers back into the inbox. “Don’t know what you’re so upset about,” he grumbled as he stalked past. “It’s not as if _Sarah_ is dating two different men.”

“Oh, God,” said John, bringing his hands to his face while Sarah blanched beside him. “Sorry,” he said to her, “sorry, I’m just—I’m giving him a little leeway tonight.”

Sherlock’s voice echoed down the clinic corridor. “Are you coming? Oh, what does this do?”

“We should probably get him out of here as quickly as possible,” John suggested.

***

“OH MY GOD,” Sarah said when Sherlock shed his coat and what remained of his shirt. She stood next to John in the glass booth that separated an antiquated computer from the radiology room. “What the hell happened?”

“Glass does conduct sound, you realize,” said Sherlock.

Sarah looked at John. “What?”

“That’s his way of saying he can hear us.”

“Ah. Did he come with a translator, or is it a learned language?”

But John only shook his head. “I’m going to go position him. Unless you want to do it?”

Sarah glanced at where Sherlock was leaning around to examine the PSP plate, then turned back to John and mouthed, “NO.”

John exited the booth. “Stand here.”

“What does that do?”

“Don’t touch it.”

“What about—?”

“Just stand still and don’t touch anything.”

“Right. Fine. Will this take very long?”

“Not if you’re still.” John went back into the booth. “Now breathe out and hold your breath until I tell you.”

“Are you talking to me or to Sarah?” Sherlock asked.

“Why would I tell Sarah to hold her breath?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“I’m not doing anything; I’m just standing here. Bored, I might add.”

John looked over at Sarah, who was quietly shaking with laughter. “It’s not funny!”

“Sorry,” she said, “but you two remind me of my mum and dad.”

“Yes, well, that’s flattering,” growled John.

“In a way . . . It could be,” Sarah told him. “My parents have enjoyed many years of domestic bliss.”

“Are we done yet?” asked Sherlock.

***

IT WAS MORE than an hour later before they had viable results. “His cheek is fine, just bruised,” Sarah said, handing the image to John. “But ribs six through nine on the right side are definitely fractured.”

John frowned at the x-ray. “No immediate danger to his organs, but I’d feel better if we taped them.”

“John, what happened to him?”

John shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure myself.”

“I saw his wrists,” Sarah persisted. “Rope burn? And the bite marks?”

John only shook his head again. “I want to tape his ribs, sew up a couple of the deeper lacerations. Can you set up an exam room while I go get him?”

“Where is he?” Sarah asked.

“Fell asleep on the waiting room couch. I’d have you go get him while I set things up, but he’s . . . unpleasant . . . when anyone wakes him before he’s ready.”

“Then by all means, he’s all yours,” Sarah told him.

***

SARAH HUNG BACK in the exam room, ready to be helpful but not wanting to intrude. It didn’t matter; John and Sherlock had apparently forgotten about her.

Sherlock lay on the table with his eyes closed, and Sarah would have guessed he was asleep except that every now and then he would say something and John would answer. They kept their voices low and she didn’t try to eavesdrop; she was too busy watching.

The clinic stayed busy, so Sarah hadn’t had many chances to observe John at work, but she was impressed with what she saw. He worked quickly but with supreme care. Maybe more care than was absolutely necessary? She watched the way John’s hands lingered for a second longer than needed after laying each strip of adhesive. But then looking at his face she realized it was because he was lost in thought. And the way his eyes traveled over Sherlock had more to do with John mentally piecing together the trauma that had been inflicted than it being some kind of visual caress.

At least, that’s what Sarah hoped was the case.

But then she saw that Sherlock sensed something was off as well. His eyes opened a fraction, observed John’s grim expression, and closed again. Then he said something she couldn’t hear, and John registered surprise before cracking a smile as he prepared to move on to sewing up the worst of the lacerations.

John got serious again then, Sarah saw; with every few pulls of the thread through the wound, he would pause and glance at Sherlock’s face as if trying to discern something. Was he wondering what had happened? Sarah was certainly curious, but it wasn’t her place to demand answers. She knew from experience that John and Sherlock sometimes fell into bizarre situations, though it was clear to her that whatever had happened to Sherlock was serious—call-the-police serious, even. Had they? Probably not, she decided, given that Sherlock had refused to so much as go to the hospital.

Maybe she should call the police? A man had been tortured (she could think of no other word to describe it) and that was something you were supposed to report, right? But she didn’t want to get them into any trouble, either . . . 

Sarah realized then that John had finished and was now just staring at Sherlock, who had finally fallen asleep, it seemed. She studied John’s face for a moment and found in it the expression of a man who had begun to understand something—probably the very thing Sarah herself had known for a while, the reason she’d held John at a distance despite liking him very much.

She went to a wall cabinet and pulled out a blanket, which she brought to John. He took it but hesitated to throw it over Sherlock. “I should just get him back to the flat.”

“Let him rest here a little first,” Sarah told him. “We can order something in. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

John only sighed and carefully laid the blanket over his sleeping patient. “Sherlock doesn’t do anything by halves,” he observed as they exited the room, closing the door softly behind them. “If he’s awake, he’s awake, and once he’s asleep . . .”

“He means a lot to you.”

John looked stricken, and Sarah knew she’d hit the mark. “Well, he . . .”

They took seats on the waiting room sofa, and when it became clear John wasn’t going to get any further, Sarah said, “John, if you had to choose one thing or person you couldn’t imagine your life without . . .” She tossed him a meaningful look.

“Food? My sister? You?” John offered.

Sarah laughed. “Food is a given, I know for a fact you could do without your sister, and I’m pretty sure you’d be fine without me. But Sherlock . . . Whatever you get from being with him—the adrenaline rush, or a new perspective on life, or . . . whatever—I don’t think you’d be happy without it. Or him.”

“Sarah, I’m not—Where are you going?”

For a moment Sarah was confused because she hadn’t moved. But then she saw John’s attention had been redirected.

“You said I could do what I wanted,” Sherlock said, pulling on his coat.

John stood up, alarm crossing his features. “Which is?”

“I’m going to go look at that building across from the hotel.”

“Then I’m going with you,” said John.

“You’re not invited.”

“Yes, well, and look what happens when I’m not around.”

Sherlock brushed past him and went to the door. “A lot less of it might have happened if you’d been more timely.” The door swung shut behind him.

John stood there, blinking at the door and trying to process what he should do next. “I hope he at least goes home to change,” he said half to himself.

“John,” Sarah said after a moment, “what happened to him?”

“I need to make a phone call,” John told her. “Then I’ll tell you the little bit that I know.”


	2. Chapter 2

“THOUGHT I’D FIND you here,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock froze on the sidewalk in front of the darkened building. “John,” he deduced.

“Told me you’d be able to explain where you disappeared to last night.”

“I was tied up.”

“So I gathered.”

“I meant that literally, not figuratively,” Sherlock told him, his eyes roving over the building’s façade. “I need to get in here.”

“What for?” Lestrade asked.

“Get me in and I’ll tell you.”

***

“IT’S NOT YOUR fault,” Sarah told John as they picked at the Chinese food they’d ordered. “You had no way of knowing.”

“I know. But I should have acted faster. And to think I honestly considered not going at all!”

“You’re not on call for him, John. And you shouldn’t let him make you feel bad about it.”

“He has a right to be angry.”

“Yes, but not with you.” They sat in silence for a moment, both of them moving food around more than eating. Then Sarah said, “You terrify him, you realize.”

John nearly choked on the piece of moo shoo he’d just popped into his mouth. “Sorry?”

“He keeps you on the defense to prevent you from mounting an offense. It’s all smoke and mirrors with him.”

“I still don’t follow,” John said. “What reason would he have to think I’m a threat?”

Sarah smiled. “You make him human. Which is something he’s worked very long and hard not to be.”

***

“IT’S AN EMPTY apartment,” Lestrade said.

“Hardly.” Sherlock stood at the windows that faced the Ritz. He pointed. “You can see directly into the bedroom of the suite we were in. Don’t—” He put a staying hand as Lestrade began to lean forward for a look, “touch the window sill.”

Lestrade put his hands up. “We shouldn’t even be in here yet. Should’ve waited for the team to arrive. ” He squinted out the glass. “I see the top and bottom of the bed, but the curtains hide the middle . . . Maids haven’t fixed it up yet, eh?”

“I’ve asked them to stay out for the time being.” Sherlock was peering at the sill. “Tell me, Inspector, what you make of this.”

“Is that rope knotted around the post?” Lestrade asked as he turned to inspect what Sherlock had found.

“I told you. I was tied up.”

Lestrade was looking hard at him now. “And you meant it?”

“I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean. What about the sill?”

Lestrade sighed and bent for a look. “But who tied you up then?”

“The window sill, if you please.”

“Looks like crayon.”

“Try again,” Sherlock suggested.

“Red pencil?” asked Lestrade.

“Fingernail polish,” said Sherlock, dropping to the hardwood. “And black shoe polish, too; whoever she is, she was wearing dress shoes.”

***

“YOU DON’T GET it,” John was telling Sarah. “He doesn’t care about anyone.”

“And you don’t get that he’s keeping you at a distance so that he can make himself believe that he doesn’t care.”

“But you think he does.”

“He made you smile,” said Sarah.

“Really? When?”

“When you were getting all soppy and serious while fixing him up. He saw you were down and he said something to make you smile.”

“Oh, that.” John smiled again now. “He was reminding me he can’t swim.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Sarah asked.

“I pushed him into a pool once. I didn’t know he couldn’t swim.” John laughed at the memory. “He looked like a half-drowned cat, and he was about as angry as one, too.”

“I’m not sure I see how that’s pertinent, but it makes you laugh at least. Which was the point at the time.”

“And this is your evidence that he cares? Sherlock would be the first to point out it’s circumstantial.”

“And what do you think?”

John considered. “He’s moody,” he said with a shrug. “Given to whims. He might have brought it up just because it occurred to him, or maybe he was trying not to think about . . .”

“Or maybe he was just thinking about you,” said Sarah.

“What are you getting at?” John asked her. “That he has a crush on me or something?”

“It’s not impossible.”

“If not then it’s the next closest thing.”

Sarah sighed and stirred the lo mein in search of more chicken. “Why did you push him into a pool, anyway?”

John sighed. “I was trying to save his life.”

***

“NOT MUCH TO go on,” Lestrade said as the criminal forensics team pulled up to where they stood at the curb. “Anyway, we still need your help with this other thing—”

“I’m a little preoccupied at the moment, Inspector,” Sherlock told him.

“So I gathered, and we’re going to go through that bit too, so don’t you worry.”

“Do I look worried?”

Lestrade studied him for a minute as if trying to gain an honest answer to the question. But all he said was, “I’ll send half this crew upstairs here and we’ll bring the other half over to the Ritz.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t want anyone in the suite,” said Sherlock.

“If a crime was committed—”

“I’m not filing an official report, nor am I pressing charges against anyone, so I don’t see that you have cause to investigate.”

Lestrade studied him a bit longer this time. “It wasn’t the doctor?”

“What?”

“He wasn’t the one to tie you up?”

Sherlock appeared bewildered. “God, no. Why would he? And even if he did, why not just do it at the flat?”

“I’ve heard stranger, believe me,” Lestrade said. “But if you’re saying there’s no crime, then what are we investigating here?” He gestured to the building behind them.

“There has most certainly been a crime,” Sherlock assured him. “I’m just not entirely sure what it is yet.”

***

“SHERLOCK?” JOHN ENTERED the flat only half hoping Sherlock would be there—which, of course, he wasn’t. Sighing, he hung up his coat, took a look at the general disarray, then retreated to the relative tidiness of his own room. He was debating whether to check on Sherlock when his phone chimed a text message.

“Finally,” he muttered, assuming it would be Sherlock. But the message came from an unidentified number.

_Do you wonder how he tastes?_

John felt his throat tighten. He tossed the phone across the bed, not wanting to break it but not wanting to look at it either.

It chimed again.

And once more.

He sat on the other edge of the bed and glowered at it. He should go find Sherlock. Or what if one of the other texts was from Sherlock? But he knew deep down they weren’t.

John drummed his fingers on the coverlet. He would ignore it. He would shower and go to bed.

But look what happened last time he ignored something like this . . .

Sherlock was fine, though. Lestrade had caught up with him. Probably. Let them sort it out.

Then again, better to be sure.

With a growl of frustration, John reached across the bed for the phone.

_Like sugar and spice…  
And I have a sweet tooth._

“Fuck it,” John said as he found Sherlock in his contacts and dialed the number. “Answer it, goddamn it.”

Not that Sherlock not answering meant anything; he hated talking on the phone. So John tried a text instead.

ANSWER YOUR PHONE

He dialed again, and this time Sherlock picked up.

“Are you alone?” John asked before Sherlock could even say a word.

“No . . .”

“Who’s with you? Lestrade?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Don’t go anywhere alone. I’ve just had a message from . . . him, and it sounds as if he’s planning something.”

“Of course he’s planning something,” Sherlock said with no small exasperation. “And now he’s trying to distract us from whatever it is he’s up to.”

John wished Sherlock were there so he could shake some common sense into him. He might be the most brilliant mind on the bloody planet, but Christ— “To hell with what he’s up to! I only care about you!”

The line went so silent that John had to glance at the phone screen to make sure they were still connected. _Bravo_ , he told himself, _now you’ve cornered him with it, and if Sarah is even half right he might never speak to you again._

“Where are you?” Sherlock asked, and now he just sounded weary.

“The flat.”

“I’ll have Lestrade bring me.”

***

JOHN PACED UNTIL Sherlock pushed open the door, Lestrade behind him. “You’re wearing tracks in the rug,” Sherlock said.

“I was worried. Moriarty—”

“Moriarty?” Lestrade asked sharply. “Is he in on all this?”

John threw Sherlock a helpless look. “Didn’t you . . . ?”

“Hadn’t really got that far,” said Sherlock as he pulled off his coat. John saw that he still wore the ruined shirt and groaned. “Burn that, would you?” he pleaded.

“Good God,” said Lestrade. “Moriarty did that?”

“I’ll go change,” Sherlock said. “Shower, while I’m at it.”

“Well, but don’t—” John began, but Sherlock was already gone, and so he finished by talking to himself, “get your tapes wet. Or we could just redo them. That’s fine too.”

Lestrade stared in the direction Sherlock had gone. “What in blazes happened?”

“What has he told you?” John asked.

“That he was tied up. With rope. And suspects someone was monitoring the hotel suite from across the street.”

From its place on a side table, John’s cell phone chimed a text message. “That yours?” Lestrade asked.

John sighed. “Yeah, but unless Sherlock is texting from the shower, it’s not anybody I want to hear from.” Lestrade gave him a strange look, and John quickly amended, “No one important, I mean.” He thought about that for a moment and realized it still didn’t sound quite right.

The phone chimed again. “You sure it’s not important? A patient or something?” Lestrade pressed.

“I don’t have any . . .” But his avoidance of his cell phone was clearly only making Lestrade curious. “Maybe I should just check . . .” John scooped up the phone and glanced at the messages, trying to keep his face passive. He might have been successful with Lestrade, but Sherlock emerged from his shower freshly dressed and immediately asked, “What’s wrong now?” And without waiting for an answer, he swiped John’s phone from his hand and scrolled through the messages, typed a quick response, and handed the phone back. “There. That should take care of it.”

John read what his flatmate had written and felt his cheeks go hot. “Sherlock!”

But Sherlock only shrugged. “If he thinks you already have intimate knowledge of my person, he has nothing to tease you with.”

John didn’t bother to argue; after all, there was no obvious fault to the logic. But he couldn’t stop staring at the screen. Moriarty’s texts from earlier in the evening were still there, and then those he had just sent:

_The sounds he makes . . .  
The way he trembles when you touch him just right_

Bad enough. But then below that came Sherlock’s reply, disguised as John’s own:

BEEN THERE DONE THAT THX

“Problem with your phone, Doctor?” Lestrade asked now, unable to fully understand the conversation he’d just witnessed.

“Uh, no. I guess not.” John put the phone facedown on the table and settled onto the sofa.

“Let’s hear about your case now, Inspector,” Sherlock invited.

“Seems like you have enough trouble of your own,” countered Lestrade. “And if it’s true that Moriarty is back, then you’d best tell me what you know. After the whole Germany stunt, he’s a fugitive.”

“You could try hospitals,” John offered when Sherlock didn’t say anything. “Sherlock shot him in the shoulder.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, but Sherlock only snorted. “He’s not an idiot, John. He’ll have someone who can take care of that without making a scene of it.”

“Like you?” John snapped. Sherlock only stared. “Well what do you suggest then?”

“That we figure out who he’s working for.”

“The woman in the apartment?” asked Lestrade. “Shall we begin rounding up women with red fingernails who are wearing black dress shoes?”

“I can’t think with all this talking,” said Sherlock.

“What about the lily?” John suggested.

“Lily?” Lestrade echoed sharply.

“It’s what Moriarty had me bring to the hotel,” John explained to the inspector before turning to his flatmate. “Could he have wanted it for his employer?”

“Wouldn’t happen to be gold, about yea big?” Lestrade held his fingers apart to demonstrate.

John kept glancing at Sherlock who remained steadfastly silent on the topic. “Yeah, why?”

“The old woman who was murdered last night had one. It was the only thing her nephew could find missing from the house. Family heirloom of some kind.”

John looked again to Sherlock. “How many of them did Queen Victoria give out?”

Sherlock only stared at him a moment before shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

“Are you all right?” John asked him.

“I’m fine, just . . . tired.”

Lestrade took that as his cue to depart. “We’ll start looking into it on our end and let you know what we discover.” He glanced at Sherlock, who had turned to stare out a window, then said to John, “Look after him, will you?” John nodded and Lestrade shut the door softly behind him.

“Not getting a fever, are you?” John stood up and moved as if to touch Sherlock’s forehead, but Sherlock drew back.

“Stop that.”

“I don’t want you to get an infection on top of everything else.”

“I’m not. Would you just—”

“When did you last eat?” John persisted. “We could—”

“I’m not hungry.”

John was beginning to be annoyed. “Well, I’d check to see that you’re human, but I don’t have a handy test for that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asked him.

“You’ve just completely disassociated yourself from . . . everything! And no matter how smart and wonderful you are, you need to deal with what’s happened!”

“And what should I do? Put on a bathrobe, curl up on the sofa and cry for a week? That wouldn’t accomplish anything.”

“Might make you feel better.”

“You mean it would make _you_ feel better,” said Sherlock. “Do you want me to talk about it? What do you want to hear, that he started at the top and worked his way down? That he told me to close my eyes and think of England?”

“No! I—”

“Why don’t you go find a dolly so I can show you where the bad man touched me?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Just shut up, John.”

John watched with alarm as Sherlock grabbed his coat off its hook. “Now what are you doing?”

“I have to go see Mycroft.”

“You can’t go out alone.”

“Why? Because the boogeyman might get me?”

John pulled open a table drawer and pulled out his gun. “I’m coming with you.” He half expected Sherlock to argue, but the detective said nothing. Still, John waited until they were in a cab to say anything more. “What are you going to tell him?”

“I’m not going to tell him anything; I’m going to ask him what he knows about the lily.”

“Don’t you know anything about it? Family history and all that?”

“Not really my thing.”

“Ah. But it’s Mycroft’s thing, is it?” John asked.

“He derives a certain amount of pride from it, yes.”

The cab stopped in front of a block of flats in Kensington. John assumed they were waiting for traffic or pedestrians until he realized Sherlock was opening the cab door. “Really?” he asked.

“Where else would he live?”

“Right,” John breathed, determined not to be intimidated.

Mycroft was still wearing his suit, sans jacket, when he answered the door. John found himself wondering if Mycroft had worked late and only just come home, or whether he really only ever wore three-piece suits. But no, surely he owned pajamas at the very least?

“Sherlock,” the elder Holmes said heavily, “come to return the—” He broke off suddenly. “Who hit you? Was it that flatmate of yours? Oh, no, here he is. Delightful.” Though Mycroft sounded as if it were anything but.

Sherlock glanced at John. “Why do people seem to think you want to hurt me, I wonder?”

“I’ve lived with you, so I know,” said Mycroft. “But if the doctor didn’t do it, who did?”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked him.

“There may not be much affection between us, Sherlock, but I’m still your older brother, and as far as I’m concerned the only one allowed to bully you is me.”

Sherlock held his brother’s gaze for what seemed like a long time, and for a moment John thought Sherlock might actually tell Mycroft the whole story. But all Sherlock said was, “I haven’t needed you to protect me since I was three, and that was from the neighbor’s dog.”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine. Then why are you here?”

“The lily. What do you know about it?”

“Where is it?” Mycroft countered.

“Someone took it.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you with it. You have no care for these things.” Mycroft gestured them out of the entry and toward the plush sofas in the living area beyond, a space that John judged could hold the entire Baker Street flat.

“We need to know why someone might want it,” Sherlock told him.

Mycroft shrugged as he went over to a highly polished bar and began pouring drinks. “It’s only gold plate; the value is mostly sentimental. And historical, I suppose, if one were a collector of such things.”

“How many of them are there?” John asked.

Mycroft handed him a highball glass of dark amber liquid that smelled very potent. “Four as I recall. Queen Victoria awarded three and kept one for herself.”

“And what exactly were they awarded for?” asked Sherlock.

“Officially? For services rendered unto the crown.”

“Unofficially?” Sherlock prompted.

“It’s all old legends and such,” Mycroft said dismissively.

“They don’t spring from nothing,” said Sherlock. “There may be something we can use.”

“Who took it?” Mycroft asked. “Were you mugged for it, is that how you got the bruise on your cheek?”

“John used it to pay my ransom.”

Mycroft scowled. “That’s ridiculous. If you were being held for ransom, I’d have heard about it. Why not just come to me?”

Something nearing a smile touched Sherlock’s lips. “Maybe they thought you wouldn’t pay.”

“Sherlock was tortured for it,” John said suddenly, “for this lily, so there must be some value to it.” He glanced at Sherlock, fully expecting a murderous glare, but his flatmate’s attention was directed in the opposite direction, as if he’d found something intriguing about the windows on the far side of the room.

Mycroft, meanwhile, appeared apoplectic. John watched the red-purple flush of anger rise from Mycroft’s collar to his ears and on up to his hairline and silently prayed his pronouncement hadn’t induced a stroke.

“Who?” Mycroft finally growled.

John looked again to Sherlock, who did not move or respond.

“I want a name, Sherlock!” Mycroft demanded.

“Moriarty,” John supplied. “James Moriarty. He’s, I don’t know, some kind of career criminal, I suppose.”

Mycroft stared at his brother, who in turn continued to stare across the room, though John was alarmed to see that the hand holding his drink was trembling.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” Mycroft decided. “Until we can get this sorted—”

“No.” It was said so quietly that John wasn’t sure he’d heard it at all.

“Damn it, Sherlock, for once do as you’re told!”

Sherlock finally met his brother’s gaze. “No,” he said again, though this time he added, “thank you.” He rose, swaying a little on his feet.

John stood, too, putting out a hand to steady his colleague. “You’re exhausted.”

“Your old room is still free,” said Mycroft, neatly removing the glass from his brother’s hand. “Don’t think I’ve even gone in it.”

Sherlock frowned and started to shrug off John’s hand, but even that small motion seemed to threaten his equilibrium. He shot Mycroft an inscrutable look, but the older Holmes remained stone-faced.

John’s eyes darted from Sherlock to Mycroft and back as he tried to decide on the best course of action. He could try to get Sherlock back to the flat, but he wasn’t convinced Sherlock wouldn’t collapse before they got that far.

In the end, Sherlock made the choice for him. “It’s fine, John,” he murmured at last.

Assuming this was his cue to leave, John set his untouched drink on a nearby table. As he did, a tingle of foreboding crept over the top of his head and down his back. The drink? He glanced at Sherlock and tried to recall whether he’d seen his flatmate taking a sip from the glass Mycroft now held.

But even if Sherlock had drunk any of it, John reasoned, on an empty stomach it might easily have had a strong influence. Didn’t mean Mycroft had drugged him.

And yet Mycroft had thought nothing of using his younger brother as a test subject for a new biological agent not so long ago, either.

John looked to Sherlock. “I’ll see you back at the flat in the morning then?”

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave his brother’s. “You should check my tapes first, don’t you think? I know you were worried about them getting wet when I showered.”

“Uh, right . . .” John glanced around.

“Down this hall here. Last door on the right,” Mycroft told him.

“Can you walk?” John asked Sherlock.

“I think so. Good night, Mycroft.”

John followed Sherlock down the hall to what proved to be a very spacious but sparsely furnished room. There was a wrought iron bed covered in russet-hued satin, a chair and ottoman done in a striped brocade, and a tall chest-of-drawers with a matching bedside table. The one tall window was covered by rust-colored curtains trimmed in gold. A partially open door revealed an en suite bathroom gleaming with marble.

“This was your room?”

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “I lived somewhere before Baker Street.”

John wanted to ask Sherlock why he’d moved at all but felt like the answer should have been obvious. Though he would have liked to hear Sherlock articulate his reasons. Instead he said, “If you’ll lie back, I’ll just check—”

“Leave it.”

John blinked. “Then I should just go?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock threw back the bedspread and lay down. “You can’t leave me here by myself.” He turned onto his uninjured side and closed his eyes.

“And what am I supposed to do?” John muttered. He envied the way Sherlock’s ability to simply fall dead asleep, as if someone had flipped a switch inside him and turned him off. And based on experience it could be anywhere from twenty minutes to several hours before his flatmate snapped awake again.

“I could just . . .” John sat down on the edge of the bed. Then he lay down, his back toward Sherlock. But he found himself too aware of the presence of the warm body behind him. He sat up again.

Movement in the bed caused John to look over his shoulder; Sherlock was shivering in his sleep. John stood and pulled the bedspread up. “Isn’t this where we started?” he asked himself as he settled into the armchair and began to doze.

***

SHERLOCK WAS SOMEPLACE dark. He couldn’t move; something was holding him down. Or was it someone?

“Say my name,” a familiar voice whispered in his ear. “I want to hear you say it.”

 _Moriarty_ , Sherlock thought. He mentally calculated the odds. Moriarty was either going to kill him or he wasn’t; complying with his wishes wasn’t likely to have an effect on the outcome.

So Sherlock said someone else’s name instead.

Moriarty grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard, which made his ribs hurt.

“Sherlock?”

Not Moriarty . . . 

Sherlock came awake in his usual fashion, which was suddenly and completely, and with the feeling that no time had elapsed between the moment he’d fallen asleep and the present. “John,” he murmured, “what’s wrong?”

“I was asking you that.” When Sherlock only stared blankly, John went on, “You said my name, so I thought you needed . . . something.” _Me_ , John thought, glad he had stopped himself saying it aloud.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Maybe you were dreaming,” said John.

“I don’t dream.”

“Everybody dreams.”

“Then I never remember mine,” Sherlock told him. “That hurts, by the way.”

“What? Oh.” John relaxed his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I really should check your tapes.”

“I don’t—” Sherlock sat up and started to stretch then winced.

“Lie down,” John instructed.

There came a knock at the door. “Sherlock?” Mycroft asked. “Are you awake in there?”

Sherlock moved faster than John would have believed possible given his condition. He leapt out of the bed and threw himself against the door, locking it.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asked again.

“We’re not dressed,” Sherlock said.

John’s mouth fell open to protest, but Sherlock motioned for him to stay quiet. Meanwhile, there was a long moment of silence from the other side of the door. John started to think Mycroft must have just walked away, but then came from the other side of the door, “There’s breakfast. If you want any.”

“Just give us a minute,” Sherlock told him.

John waited until he was relatively sure Mycroft was gone, then demanded, “Why did you tell him we weren’t dressed?”

“Only way to be certain he wouldn’t try to get in.”

“And what difference would it make if he had come in?” John wanted to know.

But all Sherlock said was, “Go shower, John; you look like hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to the swimming pool comes from the end of "The Great Game." (Remember that at the time these stories were written we didn't know how that scene would end--in my version, John knocked Sherlock into the swimming pool.)


	3. Chapter 3

JOHN HID IN the shower for as long as he felt he could get away with it, and when he emerged found the bedroom empty. So he ventured out, all the while trying not to think about what Mycroft had been led to believe.

 _He’ll know Sherlock was lying_ , John told himself as he all but tiptoed down the hall. _One look at Sherlock’s clothes will make it obvious Sherlock slept in them._

Except when John followed the smell of breakfast to its root, he found that Sherlock was dressed in fresh clothing, which left John to wonder why Sherlock would have kept any at Mycroft’s flat to begin with.

Sherlock and Mycroft were seated at a round glass table that was situated near a kitchen so shiny John was sure even the cabinets had been waxed. He almost didn’t want to sit down for fear of putting fingerprints on anything. Well, that and the expression on Mycroft’s face when he glanced up from his newspaper.

“Not taking it well,” Sherlock whispered as John took a seat next to him. John ignored what he supposed was Sherlock’s idea of a joke, while a dark-haired woman seemed to materialize out of nowhere to set a plate of food and glass of orange juice in front of him.

“Don’t eat it,” Sherlock went on. “It’s like Hades; if you ingest any of it, you’ll be stuck here.”

John’s gaze flicked toward Sherlock’s still full plate, and he felt a sudden stab of resentment. How dare Sherlock put him in this awkward situation? And then deny him breakfast besides? Locking eyes with his flatmate he resolutely took a forkful of scrambled egg and ate it.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a sharp breath of air as if having witnessed a grave tragedy.

“Paranoid much?” John murmured.

“I’ll have my assistant bring over some of your things,” Mycroft announced abruptly, folding his newspaper and setting it aside. “You can stay here until we get all this sorted out.”

Sherlock threw John a look that very clearly said, _You see?_ “That won’t be necessary,” he said aloud. “Just tell us what you know about the lilies and I can manage the rest.”

Mycroft sighed. “I have more resources at my disposal; it makes sense for me to take care of it.”

“You’re more than welcome to take a stab at it,” Sherlock told him. “But we’re not staying here in any case. So you can either send us home with the information we need, or I can research it on my own.”

John concentrated on his breakfast, very aware of Mycroft’s eyes on him. Then his phone chimed. “Excuse me,” he said as he extracted it. “Sarah wants to know how you’re doing,” he told Sherlock.

“Who is Sarah?” asked Mycroft.

“John’s girlfriend,” Sherlock told him. Mycroft started to form a question, but Sherlock’s phone chimed. “Good show. Lestrade has the name of the person in possession of the third lily.” He rose. “Anything you’d like to add, Mycroft, before we leave?”

Mycroft looked up at his younger brother for a long moment before answering, “Be careful, Sherlock. I suspect there’s more to this than you know.”

***

“I’M GOING TO go change,” John said as they entered the Baker Street flat. “You should eat something.” But Sherlock was already settling in at the computer.

John sighed and went to his room, kicking the door shut behind him as he pulled off his jumper. He was turning toward his chest-of-drawers when something on his bed caught his eye. He stopped and picked it up.

A CD. Or was it a DVD? It was unmarked, protected in a clear plastic case with nothing written on it, no note.

John took it out to where Sherlock had several Internet windows open and running. “What do you suppose this is?”

Sherlock glanced up. “Christ, John, go put on a shirt.” Then he froze and his gaze went back to the disc John held. “Where did that come from?”

“I don’t know; found it on my bed. You take it,” John said. “I’m going to go finish changing.”

Sherlock stared at the disc where John had set it on the desk as if it might be a viper waiting to strike. He was aware the best course of action would be to simply get rid of it, but at the same time he told himself there might be something useful on it, so he slipped it into the computer drive.

He had expected that the footage would be taken from the vacant apartment and so was momentarily surprised to discover this was not the case; the camera had evidently been somewhere beyond the foot of the bed. Feeling oddly disconnected, Sherlock tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It wasn’t possible that all six or more hours were on the disc, so how was this particular segment significant?

He was so involved in figuring it out, several minutes passed before he realized John had returned. Sherlock looked over and saw his flatmate had turned an irregular shade of grey-green.

But then John said something remarkable.

“It’s a map.”

Sherlock frowned. “To what?”

“I don’t know. Turn it off. Please.”

But Sherlock was squinting at the computer screen. “Where . . .?”

“Turn it off!”

Startled, Sherlock complied then sat back in the chair to think. But that proved difficult given the way John was staring at him. “What makes you think it’s a map?” he finally asked.

John ran his hands over his face. “How are you not on section right now?” Though whether he was talking to Sherlock or himself was not entirely clear. Pulling himself together, he directed Sherlock with a bit more authority, “Take your shirt off.”

Sherlock searched John’s face as if anticipating a trick.

“If you want me to show you, you have to take your shirt off.”

Still watching John, Sherlock stood, slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and slid it from his shoulders and arms before dropping it onto his chair.

“You have to look at it this way,” John told him thoughtfully, “but this would be the Thames.” He ran a finger along the wound he’d sewn up the day before.

Sherlock cocked his head. “Then this is?”

“The Ritz, I would think. And this burn—” John cleared a hitch in his throat, “might be Kensington. Remember, Mycroft kept the lily at his flat.”

“Then these other marks might be the locations of the other lilies.”

“Assuming that’s what he was mapping,” John said.

“The night Moriarty . . .” Sherlock thought back. “I was going to meet Lestrade at a crime scene in Shoreditch.”

“There,” said John, touching a puncture wound. “But I don’t know what the ribs were meant to represent.”

“I don’t think they represent anything,” Sherlock informed him, “except damage done getting me from the cab to the suite.”

John found himself unable to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Did you struggle?”

“I don’t remember; it seems likely I was already unconscious at that point. But Moriarty would have needed help to move me. Well,” he said abruptly, “this is interesting but what we really need to know is—”

“How did you endure it?” John asked.

“I was unconscious.”

“Not just that, the rest of it. All of it. How can you stand here and be so . . . detached?”

Sherlock shrugged in a way that suggested he was ridding himself of something. “What do soldiers do, John? I just thought about something else.”

“Close your eyes and—”

John and Sherlock locked eyes.

“Victoria,” John said.

“She never actually said that,” said Sherlock.

“Does that really matter?”

“Probably not.”

John ran his eyes over the map of abuses that was Sherlock’s body. “Her lily must be one of these.” He reached out as if to touch, but Sherlock stepped back and plucked his shirt from the chair.

“We need to find out from Lestrade where the third heirloom was located.”

“Let me fix your tapes first.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No time for that.” He paused. “What made you think it was a map?”

John grimaced. “He was being so . . . deliberate. Precise. It seemed like . . .” He swallowed. “Like the placement had meaning.”

Sherlock nodded briskly. “You phone Lestrade and I’ll see what I can find online about the lilies.”

***

“HAMPSTEAD,” JOHN REPORTED a short time later. He took a seat on the sofa. “The owner isn’t in residence; he’s been contacted and is sending someone to open the house and check that the lily hasn’t been disturbed.”

Sherlock glanced down at himself. “Hampstead would be . . .”

“Right about where he bit you.”

“Lovely,” Sherlock murmured, turning his attention back to the computer. “The lilies aren’t much of a research subject, although at least two sites claim they work in tandem as a sort of combination lock or key . . . to some unspecified safe or vault.”

“Moriarty is after secret treasure?”

“He’s working for someone.”

“What makes you so sure?” John asked.

“He would have killed us if he hadn’t been called off somehow; the question is: who is giving the orders?”

“Why would he work for someone else? What’s in it for him?”

“If we can figure that out, we might be able to figure out who he’s working for. Meanwhile, Victoria’s lily was easy enough to locate.”

John thought about it for a moment, recalling the marks Moriarty had made. “The second burn?” It wasn’t, as he remembered, very far from the first.

“The Victoria and Albert Museum. Not, however, on display. It’s held in the archives.”

“How does Moriarty plan to get at that one, I wonder?” John mused.

“Never mind him; how will we get at it?” Sherlock asked.

John’s expression became guarded. “Sherlock, we are not breaking into a museum.”

Sherlock’s mind was clearly racing. “We don’t have to break in so much as get ourselves locked in, I think. Might have to break out, though . . .”

“No! Get Lestrade to . . . whatever. Something. And don’t look at me like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like I just cancelled your birthday.”

“I don’t cel—” Sherlock’s phone dinged. “The Hampstead lily is missing,” he said as he checked the text message. He considered. “It’s possible that was the first one he took, if he went in order of . . .”

“Hampstead, Shoreditch, then Kensington,” said John.

“Which means he’s already at the museum.” Sherlock rose. “Contact Lestrade. I’m going after the lily.”

“Not by yourself,” John told him.

Sherlock was already shrugging on his coat. “Meet me there.”

“It’s the middle of the day! Won’t he wait until tonight?”

“I wouldn’t.”

As Sherlock closed the door behind him, John had a thought. He strode over and pulled the door open. “Take my gun at least!”

But Sherlock was gone.

***

SHERLOCK ARRIVED AT the museum to find a small but dense crowd standing outside the main entrance while a security officer tried vainly to move them back. “What’s going on?” he asked a young lady who’d been chatting with a friend.

She looked over her shoulder and up, and the flash of annoyance at being interrupted morphed into a charming smile. “Fire alarm. We’re waiting for the brigade to come shut it off.”

Sherlock sniffed. “That’s schoolboy stuff. I could have done much better.”

“What?” the girl asked.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied, switching on a friendly smile of his own. “Thank you.” He began to scan the façade of the building.

“This might take a while,” said the girl. “We were just going to go get some coffee if you’d like to come.”

“No . . .” Sherlock answered absently. He maneuvered his way through the masses and began to walk around the building. Every entrance had at least one guard and a few people milling near it, including the Tunnel Entrance, which Sherlock felt would put him closest to where he wanted to be once he got inside. So he put on his most confident expression and approached.

“Call the police,” Sherlock said before the guard could utter a word. “Ask for Inspector Lestrade and tell him the man they’re looking for is in the museum archives.”

“Who’re you?” the guard asked.

“Detective Holmes.” He held up a hand to forestall additional questions. “Time is key here, Mr . . .?”

“Tait.”

“Indeed, so you have two options here: hold things up or help us catch a criminal. Which would you rather do?”

“Why, help sir, of course.”

Sherlock patted him on the arm. “Good man. Don’t forget to ask for Lestrade.” And with that he slipped past and into the museum.

***

THE SIRENS CONTINUED to blare as Sherlock slipped through the empty exhibits and down to the storerooms. He wasn’t worried about finding the lily—he was sure Moriarty had already done that—nor did he much care about getting the artifacts back. Lestrade and the police could do that. And yet, although Sherlock believed he had a significant amount of the mystery solved, he felt compelled to seek affirmation of his suspicions.

From a level or more up came the sound of footsteps and men shouting to one another. A few minutes later the alarm fell silent. The firemen would work their way through the building before letting anyone back inside, though Sherlock doubted they would go into the storage area. Human nature dictated that, in the absence of a persuasive reason to do something, a person was unlikely to bother doing anything. Ergo, unless they thought the storeroom was on fire, the fire brigade was unlikely to bother going in. People cut corners. Sherlock understood this to be fact.

In this instance, it would be a fact that worked in his favor.

The storeroom consisted of tall racks of drawers, some shallow and others deeper. Against the far wall were shelves for even larger items; Sherlock glimpsed busts and statue fragments, various stoneware and metal items that might have bore closer inspection if he’d had the time or inclination.

But the lily would be small and almost certainly in a drawer somewhere. Sherlock began walking past the racks the way one would walk past library shelves, stopping only when he found what—or rather, who—he’d been looking for.

“How much trouble are you in for what you did to me?” asked Sherlock as he leaned against a stack of drawers.

Moriarty turned, the lily in his right hand, and Sherlock saw his left arm was in a sling under his coat. “In my defense, he said not to kill you; he never said I couldn’t hurt you. And the doctor was fair game.”

“But Mycroft’s assistant stopped you,” Sherlock deduced. “I’d say she has a soft spot for John, but it’s much more likely she was afraid of what my brother would do if he found out.”

“I’m sure this will appease him,” said Moriarty. “And where is your beloved shadow?”

“Behind you.”

Moriarty smiled as if to humor Sherlock, but it faded when he heard the sound of the gun cocking.

“I don’t think Mycroft would care one way or the other if John were to shoot you, do you?” Sherlock asked.

Moriarty looked over his shoulder to where John stood ready to fire.

“We could just as easily bring him the lily, couldn’t we, John?” Sherlock went on.

Moriarty barked a laugh, but it sounded uneasy at its core. “Come now. He’s no murderer. He’s a doctor.”

“Which means he knows all the best places on a body,” Sherlock paused, adding at length, “for a bullet.”

John made of show of aiming.

From somewhere outside the storeroom came a loud, protesting voice. “I thought he was CID! He said he was a detective!”

“Calm down, Mr. Tait. No one is blaming you.”

Mycroft appeared at the end of the row of shelves, a nervous Mr. Tait in his wake.

“Now who are these people?” Tait asked, but Mycroft stayed him with a dismissive wave.

“I think, Mr. Tait, you should return to your post and let me handle this from here.”

“Yes, Inspector, of course,” said Tait, flashing Sherlock a baleful glare as he backed away.

“Inspector. That’s a new one,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft ignored the jibe and began rocking toe-to-heel in his highly polished shoes. “Well, Sherlock, you’ve caused me no end of trouble today. Put the gun down, Doctor.”

John looked to Sherlock, who gave a tiny shrug. Reluctantly, John lowered his arm.

“I’ve managed to stall Lestrade and his people outside; my office will, of course, be taking Mr. Moriarty here into custody.”

“Along with the lily, I presume,” said Sherlock.

“Certainly.”

“The box?”

“Has been in our possession for some time. It took us a while to figure out what we needed to open it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Or you could have asked me.”

“And would you have done it?” Mycroft asked.

“No.”

“Which is why I didn’t ask.”

“And what will you do with him?” John asked suddenly, nodding toward Moriarty.

“The terms of our agreement are not your concern,” said Mycroft. “He will, I’m sure, leave the two of you alone from here on.”

Moriarty smiled at John and raised his eyebrows, leading John to believe Mycroft was far from the mark.

“Now I’d like to get out of here with a minimal amount of fuss,” Mycroft continued. “It’s bad enough I had to come at all. Mr. Moriarty, if you please—” Mycroft gestured for Moriarty to join him. “Mr. Tait is under the impression that I am Inspector Lestrade, so if you’ll follow my lead . . .” He and Moriarty began to walk away, but after a few steps Mycroft paused. “Sherlock! Are you coming?”

Sherlock only shook his head.

Mycroft took a step toward his brother, menace crossing his features, but Moriarty whispered something that caused the elder Holmes to relax. “True,” Mycroft said thoughtfully, “very true.” He turned and left with no further protest, Moriarty a step behind.

As John watched them depart, his hand tightened briefly on his gun. Then he turned to Sherlock, any number of questions bouncing through his mind. But Sherlock had one for him first:

“So, John, do you still think I’m paranoid?”

***

SHERLOCK REFUSED TO answer any questions during the cab ride back to the flat, and John was left champing at the bit until his flatmate was settled on their sofa.  
Stretched out and eyes closed, Sherlock finally said, “What do you want to know?”

John almost didn’t know where to start. “Mycroft and his office don’t need the money, so why—?”

“What makes you think it has anything to do with money?”

John floundered. “But what else . . .?”

“The only currency Mycroft deals in is information. He clearly thinks the Victoria box contains something worth knowing. It’s not an unreasonable assumption, given that the queen awarded three men with keys. While it’s not likely she would have given them access to money or jewels, if they had done some kind of intelligence work for her . . .”

“Your great-great grandfather was a spy?” John asked.

The detective grimaced. “All I know is his name was Sherlock.”

“Oh . . .” John considered. “But why didn’t Mycroft just break open the box?”

“I can’t answer that; I haven’t seen the box.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe breaking it open would have risked the contents somehow. Or maybe Mycroft simply didn’t want to ruin it.” Sherlock opened his eyes as another thought struck him. “Maybe . . . He had been asked by whomever gave him the box not to destroy it . . .”

“Who would have given him—?”

“Think about it long enough, John, and I feel you’ll come to a reasonable conclusion. Do you have enough for your notes?”

“Why didn’t Mycroft just give Moriarty his lily instead of . . . all the rest?”

Sherlock snorted. “What a stupid question. Anything else?”

“But he was honestly angry when I told him . . .”

“He wasn’t angry on my account; he was angry his orders had been circumvented. If there’s one thing Mycroft hates, it’s people not doing what he tells them.”

“And why hire Moriarty? Wouldn’t he be the last person—?”

“It would depend on what you value. In any case, Mycroft knew I wouldn’t do the job, so he went for what he must have thought would be the next best thing. Though I’d be interested to learn who recommended Jim for it.”

John felt a pang at hearing Sherlock use Moriarty’s first name so casually but while he was gathering the courage to ask about it—and steeling himself against possible answers—Sherlock said, “I have a question for you now. How did you get into the museum?”

John shrugged. “I just . . . walked in, really.” When Sherlock appeared skeptical, John said, “The brigade was coming out, and Lestrade and his people were having words with the guards and some other, er, officials, and I . . . walked in.”

Sherlock scrutinized his companion. “You _are_ average; I can see how you’d go unnoticed.”

John wasn’t sure if this was meant to be a compliment, so he let it go. “And how did you know it was Mycroft?”

“He tried to keep me out of it. Under any other circumstances he wouldn’t have cared.”

John sighed. “Well, now that’s over,” he said with forced cheerfulness, “I can finally fix the tapes on your ribs.”

“You’ve been trying to undress me for two days, John; I’m starting to wonder.”

John’s jaw fell open. “I haven’t! I’m not! I—”

“Um . . . Hi?” Sarah craned her head through the door. “Just thought I’d check on you two.”

Sherlock shot John a look that John couldn’t decipher. “Sarah can do it.”

“Sarah?!”

“Can do what?” Sarah asked as she came the rest of the way into the flat.

“Redress my ribs,” Sherlock told her. “John’s singular focus on my physique is starting to make me uncomfortable.”

Sarah frowned at John. “Okay,” she said uncertainly. “Well, do you have any tape?”

John glared at Sherlock, who acted as if he didn’t notice, then stalked out of the room, returning a few minutes later with the adhesive. He handed it to Sarah, and she perched herself on the edge of a table. “Let’s take a look,” she said.

“I’ll make tea,” John announced a bit too vehemently. He planted himself in the kitchenette and pretended to ignore the fact that his would-be girlfriend had her hands all over his flatmate—which, by the way, was more than Sarah had ever done for John. Not that he resented it, of course.

“Torture should be a subtler art,” Sherlock mused.

“You seem to be healing up well,” said Sarah. “And how are you doing otherwise?” When all she received was a blank stare, she asked, “How do you feel?”

“Asking Sherlock how he feels is like asking the refrigerator if it’s had a nice day,” John said as he dug biscuits out of the cabinet.

Sherlock sat up and buttoned his shirt. “I think I’ll . . .” He stood and half strode, half stumbled to his room, slamming the door behind him.

“I take it he doesn’t want tea then,” said John, bringing the tea and a plate of assorted goodies.

Sarah rose so he could set the plate on the table. “That was a bit harsh, don’t you think, John?”

“Not really, no. Accurate is what I’d call it.”

“You hurt his feelings,” she said, taking the cup John handed her.

“I’m not convinced he has them,” John told her. “He’s all surface. If you chip away the paint, I don’t know that there’s anything beneath it.”

“Why are you so angry?” Sarah asked.

“I’m not! At least, I don’t . . . Why do you even care?”

Sarah squinted in the direction Sherlock had gone as if trying to see through to something. “He’s charming, in an odd sort of way—”

“Yes, well, you don’t have to live with him.”

“—And he needs someone, and as best I can tell you’re the only someone he has.” Sarah set her cup on the table. “I’ll leave you to it.”

John gazed at the abandoned tea for what felt like a long time after Sarah left. He listened for any sounds coming from Sherlock’s room, but the flat remained quiet. _He’s sleeping; I should leave him alone_ , John told himself, though he suspected this wasn’t true at all, and after what might have been minutes or as much as an hour, he finally got up the nerve to go knock on Sherlock’s door.

No response, but he hadn’t expected any. _Maybe he’s gone out the window. Again._

John turned the knob and leaned into the room, half hoping Sherlock really had gone out the window. But he was not so lucky. The chamber was remarkably neat given the mess Sherlock made of the living space, and a tad austere, all of the furnishings being of good quality but more somber in tone than what John had seen of Sherlock’s room at Mycroft’s. Sherlock sat on the far side of his bed, his back to the door, hands steepled under his nose, eyes trained on the blank wall as if it had something important to impart.

“It’s a lovely paint job, but . . .” John began.

“What do you want, John?”

“Look, it’s just, I’m sorry. Okay?”

“For what?”

“All of it. Everything. I’m sorry that he did this to you, and that I let him do it, that I wasn’t home that night and wasn’t faster—”

John saw Sherlock’s shoulders fall a little; could it be he was making an impression? Finally? But all Sherlock said was, “I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

“Why?” John demanded. “Why do you do that? Every time I think I might be getting through to you, you say or do something to push me away again.”

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock asked again. “I can’t give you anything until I know what you’re asking for.”

John was confused. “I don’t want anything. Except to know you’re all right.”

“I feel like you’re asking me to swim.”

“You can’t swim.”

“Exactly.”

John stared at Sherlock’s back, searching for the right thing to say. After a moment he remarked, “One of the first things they taught us in the army is that courage doesn’t mean not being hurt or afraid; it means pushing on despite being hurt and afraid.”

“Then you must be a very good soldier,” Sherlock told him.

“I’d say the same of you,” said John. He turned to leave. “I’ll be out here if you want me.” He left the door ajar in the hope that Sherlock might be lured out.

“Want you?” Sherlock asked himself. “Or need you?” But that was a question the detective was at a loss to answer.

EPILOGUE:

JOHN DREAMED, LIKE many a soldier, of coming home. But the house in his dream made no sense to him; some of the rooms he recognized from his childhood, some had the hallmarks of places he’d been or seen but had no special attachment to, others were dim and unfamiliar. He wandered through them, searching for someone, and at long last he came to a door. He knew, in the way one knows things in dreams, the door led outside to a large pond. And although John was sure the person he was searching for was out there, he was suddenly afraid to look.

 _What do you want, John?_ he asked himself. He couldn’t go any farther until he’d answered that question. But he felt like time was running out; he needed to act fast.

_Don’t overthink it. What do you want?_

And like a shot passing through him, all at once the answer seemed obvious. He reached for the doorknob and wrenched it open.

Which was the moment he woke.

Throwing back the covers, John leapt out of bed. Then froze. He’d been about to do something important . . . He summoned up remnants of the dream he’d been having: a house, a door . . . He’d been looking for Sherlock, but had he found him? He couldn’t remember.

John checked the clock. It was early, but not absurdly so. Maybe he would go ahead and get started on the day. If Sherlock was still asleep, John would have first chance at the shower.

The thought of water brought his mind back to the dream again. A pond?

John shook off the strange unease the dream seemed to engender and padded into the living area, stopping short when he saw—

“Mycroft?” he asked.

Sherlock’s older brother looked up from whatever he’d been reading, something he’d no doubt picked up off one of the teetering piles strewn around the room.

“Does Sherlock know you’re here?”

“I’m only here as a courtesy to you, Doctor,” said Mycroft grimly. He stood and tossed the book onto the chair he’d been sitting in. “I’ve sent Sherlock home.”

John didn’t understand. “Kensington?”

“Good God, no. Home. To the only person who’s ever been able to make him behave like a civilized being.

“I’ve packed him off to Mummy.”


End file.
